At the start of the evening, it had all seemed like a good idea. Meet at the tavern and get drinks. Have some laughs, tell some stories, and just have a good time. Well, events had taken a drastic turn after Dorian strode into the Herald's Rest. Lavellan was already, clearly, several drinks in and his laughter echoed throughout the room.

The process of getting Dorian caught up to the Inquisitor, however, took a bit of effort. Dorian enjoyed a fine wine, but the swill the tavern was serving made him curl his lip. At least after the first couple mug fulls. Then everything started to spiral down hill. A few more drinks and Dorian found himself heartily agreeing to whatever plan Lavellan had just proposed. To be fair, Dorian had been more focused on not spitting out his mouthful of ale when Iron Bull had slapped him on the back in a hearty laugh.

Next thing he knew, clothes - the Inquisitor's clothes - were being shed. Shamelessly. Without care and in the middle of the dying activity of the tavern. Dorian's brows immediately shot up, his eyes lingering over every exposed inch of the lithe elf. Each trail or swirl of the vallaslin, each delicate scar and toned muscle. He swallowed thickly, shifting in his seat.

The question formed in his mind, yet the words could not be formed on his tongue. And moments later he was being dragged off the stool, Lavellan's hands running over every inch of him as buckles were undone. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, yet still words escaped his grasp. Even simple ones as a strangled groan escaped his lips instead.

A rush of cool air told Dorian that he was no longer as clothed as when he'd come into the tavern. Whistles and catcalls from the Chargers confirmed this. And yet Dorian could spare no thoughts to embarrassment - not that he would with such a magnificent body as his - as he was being dragged along to the exit. Wait. No. That was wrong. Why were they going to the exit?

With a whoop and a rather titillating cry - if one asked Dorian his opinion - he was being rushed off by the Inquisitor. Dorian broke into a run behind him as they darted into the heavily moonlit courtyard of Skyhold. Their hands intertwined, and Dorian gawking at both the sheer insanity of the moment and the excellent view of the Inquisitor's posterior.

As they raced across the grounds of Skyhold, Dorian realized he was not quite drunk enough to miss the look of utter shock on Cullen's face. Or the intrigued and curious stare of Leliana as they peered down from the ramparts to see the commotion below.

The hearty, booming laugh behind them told Dorian that they were not alone in this venture. Iron Bull was running toward them at full tilt, a ridiculously pleased laugh on his lips when he tackled Dorian and Lavellan. In an instant, there was a tangle of limbs and horns with excessive amounts of laughing - and groaning. Followed by shouting from the Commander about putting clothes on, for the love of the Maker, and taking whatever it was inside.

Dorian simply hopes he won't remember any of this come morning. Except maybe the lovely sight of Lavellan's naked body.